The Other Side
by Aramante
Summary: CROSSOVER. AU. A very dark twist on the stories of Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, and The Wizard of Oz. Three girls meet & share their strange experiences, forming an unlikely bond that is tested when Peter returns to kidnap one of Wendy's new friends
1. The Commencement

**Prologue **

**The Commencement**

The party was a rather dull affair; with cocktail dresses and champagne served to the finest of elegance in all of London. However, most fourteen-year-old girls would not find this quite amusing. They would remain lulled, perched in corners with wearisome tears in their eyes and watching as the adults presented a plethora of older wits and wisecracks, but these fourteen-year-old girls would find these witticisms utterly tiresome. As the sounds of their voices resonated threw the massive ballroom, those who did not belong would hold back the tempting sensation of tearing at their hair in boredom. It was suspected of a girl to behave sophisticatedly on such occasions, serving with gratitude and only to please their elders. They would abide their parents and be obliged to render in to joining them on their glamorous invitation. It was not polite to turn down such an exquisite opportunity.

A sullen girl with golden sun-kissed hair would occasionally roll her cerulean eyes as her elder sister threw her head back in a fit of harmonious giggles. She had been attentively watching as grown-ups passed by, staring her down with dissatisfaction. Perhaps it was permitted to intermingle with others, and she was now pigeonholed as disrespectful and introverted, but it was not anything she had not experienced before. It appeared as if the world reserved gratitude from her being downsized. "Oh, Alice, you must learn not be so wrapped up in those ridiculous children's books," she whispered, mimicking her sister's ratty tone. "Alice, I am absolutely repulsed by your discourteous actions!"

"I am sorry, but to whom are you speaking to?" someone asked, a voice belonging to girl who could not be any older than she was herself.

Alice submissively shrugged. "No one. I was just impersonating my sister. She told me that I was obligated to come here, even as I had practically refused."

"I did not feel I should have either, but my parents think it perilous to leave me alone at night."

"Why?" Alice asked. Surely, a fourteen-year-old girl was perfectly capable of looking after herself, was she not?

"Because…well…I _do_ have a bit of trouble falling asleep at night," she proclaimed unenthusiastically, her face reddening in embarrassment. "It is for reasons of the past. I suppose it is a bit ridiculous to believe such nonsense." She seated herself down sat to Alice. "My name is Wendy Moira Angela Darling. What is yours?"

"Alice," she replied, not relenting on letting her surname be declared. "What nonsense are you speaking of?"

"Well, you see, I have had rather unpleasant experiences at night," Wendy confessed. The crimson hue that had filled her cheeks began to profound a shade richer than that of an unsullied raspberry. "My parents tell me it was only a nightmare, but I fear it was much more, something far worse."

"What can be worse than a nightmare?"

"It was not a nightmare at all, even as I tell you what happened, you would think it outlandish."

Alice stifled a laugh. Her own experiences let her believe in even the most peculiar of stories, the ones that depicted a scent of unreality, of vivid, scintillating imagination. Even if Wendy's story would consist of another parallel world in the mind's eye, she would swallow in all her words like uncontaminated liquid generously prickling her tongue. And she enjoyed watching others materialize wild stories about princesses and witches and pirates – eccentric stories that no ordinary girl would conjecture, with equally peculiar characters Alice yearned really did exist. She stiffened her posture and said, "I wouldn't, I promise."

"Well, I…I'd rather not, actually," Wendy said, and turned her attention to the intermingled adults talking amongst themselves without even as much as a care in the world.

Alice frowned. "Why?" she asked. "I had just informed you I would not find you strange or odd, no matter what you told me. I'm sure I've had experiences just as outlandish as yours."

Even with her calm, serene tone of voice, of assurance, Wendy did not appear persuaded. She let out a sigh of moderate reluctance and placed her hands firmly upon her lap before replying. "Oh, all right. But I warned you; and please do not taunt me after I tell you. Promise me you won't."

"I promise," Alice answered.

A relatively boisterous looking girl crudely interrupted Wendy as she began telling her captivating and far-fetched tale. "Oh, good. I see I'm not the only old girl here. I thought I would go insane." Her accent was foreign. She had her toffee-tinted hair tied into two braided pigtails with delicate cobalt ribbons and was dressed in a blue chequered dress and a pinafore. She seated herself down, unsolicited, next to Alice and Wendy with a smug expression on her face, perhaps aware her company was not wanted. The mischievous glistening in her eyes hinted her frequent joy of stirring unnecessary trouble. It was for this that Alice did not like her. "What are you two going on about?" she asked.

Alice leaned forward if as informing in on a scandalous secret she preferred no one would overhear – like a deceitful act of adultery. "We're just telling stories," she replied.

The girl's eyes lit up in reflective curiosity. "Oh, what kind of stories?"

"Nothing you'd be interested in, I'm sure of," Alice retorted sharply.

"You're not from England are you?" Wendy asked, her voice drenching with inquisitive anticipation.

"No, I'm from Kansas. My Aunt lives here, in London, and I've come to live with her," the girl answered. "My name's Dorothy. What's yours?"

"I'm Wendy, and this is Alice," Wendy gestured over to Alice. "She's a bit uninviting I'm afraid. Do ignore it."

This remark simulated an ounce of displeasure and for Alice to roll her eyes, though she refrained herself from speaking aloud her anger.

"We are telling stories about our adventures," Wendy informed.

"Adventures?" Dorothy asked. "How wonderful. I have a lot of stories to tell you. I've told my parents, but they thought it was my imagination."

"All right, that is quite lovely, but I would like to hear Wendy's story," Alice stated. "I am very curious to know what happened, why you have trouble falling asleep at night."

"I have night terrors."

"Why?" Dorothy asked.

"Well," Wendy started, "you see, about one year ago, at night, I was sleeping and was awakened by a boy who could fly." She began to tell them of the first night she'd awakened, perturbed and agitated, to see the lining of an unrecognizable boy's face and how he'd managed to whisk her off to a magical land of disturbed pretence. Alice and Dorothy stared conscientiously with enquiring eyes, lost in the depths of a story they surely would not forget.


	2. Escaping Neverland

**Escaping Neverland**

She had been feeling a relatively ticklish sensation upon her lips. She giggled breathlessly; but did not stir, as the prickle traced the smooth lining of her pallid face, trailing along her chin. It was a faint, unrecognizable touch that motivated her senses, causing her to grimace and fling open her tired eyes. Hovering over bed was a boy, his face camouflaged in darkness. She gasped and sent the boy hurling backward, or perhaps he was flying? He pressed himself up against the wall, staring attentively at her frame. She breathed deep inhalations of worry before spitting out "Who are you?" in disconcerted anger.

He could not have been any older than she was – perhaps thirteen. She was repulsed by his grimy skin and uncombed hair. He appeared as if he had not bathed in months.

"I asked you a question," Wendy snapped. "I demand you answer me, you strange boy. Who are you?"

He levelled himself down atop the hardwood floor. "I'm Peter. What's your name?"

"Wendy," she answered. "What are you doing in my room? Why were you touching my face?" The tributary of questions rapidly materializing in her mind were brawling to escape her lips. "Why do you look as if you have not bathed in four months?"

"I came here to see you," he answered. "Like I do _every_ night."

"What do you mean every night?" Wendy asked folding her arms firmly across her chest and awaiting whatever ridiculous reply he was to retort with.

"I think you're very beautiful," he answered, disregarding her question.

"Well, that is frightfully fascinating," she found herself saying, relatively flattered at his observation. "But you're filthy!" She glimpsed at her window. "Did you climb through the window?"

"No."

"Then how did you get here?"

"I flew," he answered.

So her assumption had been correct – he _had_ been flying. It was not just a trick of the imagination. He had flown through her window, and floated above her slumbering body, unbeknownst to her. Who knew what repulsive actions he had committed? "Are you here to assault me?"

He appeared saddened at her impulsive accusations. "No. I'm here to take you with me."

"Take me where?" she asked.

"To Neverland."

"I am terribly sorry. I do not go anywhere with strangers," she said, and returned to her bed. "I should not be speaking to you either. I will go to sleep and you will leave my room. Good night."

Stubbornly folding his arms across his chest, the obstinate boy remained resolutely in place, resentful for her insolence. His eyes flashed in rage, perhaps holding back the temptation of viciously launching forward and enclosing her beautiful milky neck in his fingers. She wrapped herself in her blanket and pressed her eyes shut, pretending to have fallen asleep and anticipating Peter's departure.

But Peter didn't leave, instead edging closer towards her bed. "Come with me Wendy," he whispered sinisterly in her ear.

Wendy pulled the covers over her head, desperate to wedge out his ominous voice reverberating in her mind. "I cannot come."

"You'll never have to grow up."

"Oh, really?" Wendy said, pushing her blanket away and positioning herself upright. "Well, then, may I ask where this Neverland is where you will never grow up?"

"I'll show you," he answered, and placed his hand over hers. His touch sent an eerie sensation snaking through her body in utmost distaste. She impetuously hauled it from his loose grasp and looked away from his diligent stare. Peter moved closer; close enough for her to heed his tranquil breathing. She turned back to him, scrutinizing the speckles of gold in his penetrating cobalt eyes. They did not look quite as beautiful from afar; but now as she gazed, captivated by his stare, she was spellbound by the shrewdness lurking within them.

"No," she finally said.

"Have it your way then," he shrugged, and picked up the lamp from her nightstand. She assiduously watched as he, with full compelling liveliness and a cunning smirk, raised it slowly above his head. The sharp pain welling inside Wendy's skull engulfed her in darkness as she motionlessly fell back on her bed.

* * *

She awoke flabbergasted and staring enquiringly at the radiant blue sky before her. She thought she must have been dreaming, for the sky, glistening with its cerulean vividness, looked as if to be a depiction of fantasy rather than a pragmatic atmosphere. She was lying against the flourishing green grass, marvelling if Peter had a been a figment of her imagination, a flamboyant hallucination, or if she really _had_ awakened to seeing a boy flying above her bed, with the most poignant, yet vindictive pairs of eyes she had ever seen.

She noticed he was staring down at her, and smiling, his face camouflaged in darkness from the blinding daylight. She realized that she hadn't envisioned any of it, it was all very, truly real. "You're awake."

"What is this place?" she asking, steadily positioning herself upright.

"It's where I wanted to show you," he answered.

"You mean to say you have brought me to Neverland? How did you bring me here?"

"I apologize for hurting you; but you weren't co-operating. How is your head?" He brought his right hand up against the back of her head; but she fractiously smacked it away with one tremulous hand. His eyes were tingling with astuteness, but she hoped he was nothing more than a harmless, inexperienced, and ill-mannered boy. Harmless? Wendy thought. He knocked you over the head with a lamp! I would not call that harmless!

"Don't touch me!" she demanded, and turned away from his attentive gaze. "I should like to return home."

"But I just brought you here," Peter said, sounding a bit hurt.

Wendy felt her heart well in sympathy; but she would desist on letting herself render in to an expression of unhappiness. She did not want to accompany a boy she did not know to place she did not know. She was desperate to go home. Her parents would begin to worry if they returned to her hasty absence – to see a crumpled mess of where her body should lie. She would not tolerate such agony upon them. "I said take me home. I do not want to stay here."

"Just stay for a little while, and if you do not like it, I will take you back home, I promise," he pledged, and the sincerity in his voice sounded convincing.

"I do not like it here already," Wendy alleged. "Why have you brought me here? I told you I did not want to come. Why do you have to behave so obstinately?"

"I am not," he snapped. "If you want to grow old and die, fine; but I am still going to keep you here. You will see if you like it, and if not, then you will go home."

"I refuse to take orders from you, boy."

"Don't _call_ me that. I have a name," he muttered impolitely.

Wendy rolled her eyes. "All right, _Peter_, take me back."

"No."

There was nothing that could be done. Peter had brought her there, and Peter was the only one capable of returning her home. She had no choice but to stay, and cogently endure his impertinence. Even the thought of such horror was unbearable. She hardly knew this boy, and yet she already felt threatened by him – his perilous voice, unruffled hair, and craggy attire. Just the sight of him she found despicably repulsive, or perhaps if he were not so bad mannered, her opinions would have been the alternative. He had a relatively charismatic appeal as regards to his facial structure; but his positive attributes were clearly deficient in that empty shell which one would declare as a heart, a soul, and internal righteousness.

"Please, just stay, for a little while," Peter said, sounding desperate. "I will return you home if you do not wish to stay longer, I have told you I would. I promised I would."

How could one so appalling be so persuasive? Wendy had her speculations; but she agreed nonetheless. "I suppose just a short while, maybe ten minutes would be good?"

"That is not long enough. I won't be able to show you anything in ten minutes."

"All right," Wendy said, and thought for a moment. "Oh, how about until you show me everything then?"

A mischievous smile crossed his lips, a smile of unreserved satisfaction. Wendy did not like it. She was almost revolted by his cunning conducts. She still wanted to know why in heaven's name he'd brought her to Neverland, besides the ridiculous fact that he thought her to be pretty. Surely, there was more of a motivation circulating his transgressions. He brought out his hand to hers, and – with great reluctance – she held a firm grasp onto it. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said, letting go. "You cannot fly."

"Well spotted," Wendy spat. The touch of his hand sent a prickling sensation crawling beneath the flesh of her skin, almost as if she were being attacked by pitchforks. She could not falsely deny his alluring external qualities. His messy flaxen hair pointing with no destined sense of direction, and ever enchanting eyes, it was all very pleasing to the eye, excluding his nonsensical shredded, grimy clothes, she was threatened and repulsed and entranced all at once. There was only a hint of innocence dancing vigilantly about his face.

He looked irritated; but chose to disregard her insolence. "Tinkerbell!" he yelled, and again, and again, until Wendy cold tolerate no longer.

"What on Earth is a Tinkerbell?" she asked, bewildered.

"She's a _fairy_," Peter replied.

"But I thought there were no such thing as– " Wendy started; but Peter almost instantaneously placed his hand over her mouth, muffling the last of her sentence.

"Don't _say_ that."

Wendy offensively whacked it away. "Don't touch me again."

"But every time someone says that, a fairy somewhere falls down dead," Peter insisted, very seriously.

Wanting to spite the petulant boy, Wendy moved back, so that he wouldn't be able to cover her mouth. "There's no such thing as fairies," she hissed as quickly as she could, glaring at him.

Peter frantically looked around for Tinkerbell, who, being her glittery fluttery self, was buzzing her little wings animatedly inches away from him. He turned back to Wendy, his eyes cold enough to turn water into ice. "Well, a fairy _somewhere_ is now dead, thanks to you."

"Good," Wendy muttered, in a very distasteful tone. "That will teach not to break into people's homes uninvited."

"Fine, then. If you want to be that way, go home; but I'm not going to help you."

"Then how will I get back?"

Peter shrugged and smiled deviously. "Figure out a way yourself," he said, and he turned his attention to Tinkerbell. "And you better _not_ help her."

As infuriated and distressed as she was, Wendy told herself to get a grip and endeavour at best to concoct a plan – in hopes of absconding Neverland. She couldn't possibly subsist anywhere within ten feet of this ruthless, brutal boy. Any means of the impracticable slipped from her mind and she uncouthly turned to walk away from Peter and Tinkerbell. What right did he have to imprison her in such a horrid place? Most would believe Neverland to be quite an exquisite panorama, the trees stretching out far into the air; but not obscuring the brilliant gleaming sunlight from her vision. But Wendy certainly didn't. To Wendy, it was swallowed into the ugliness of Peter's heart.

Perhaps eventually he would feel some sort of repentance and say, "I'll take you home, Wendy. I don't want you to be unhappy."

And then Wendy would grin her happiness, thanking him for his gratitude. "Why, you are so kind, Peter." But this was only a ridiculous, childish desire that would never materialize into a reality. She had always been so self-indulgent to search within the souls of beings and uncover a source of morality. Surely, no one could be entirely evil, could they? Maybe Peter _would_ be guilty for his discourteous actions, and he would apologize profusely.

Wendy searched the grounds for a source of escape; but she hadn't managed to stumble across any such thing. Everywhere she turned, there would be hundreds upon hundreds of vigorous trees amid luxuriant, moist emerald grass. It didn't take long for her to fathom the harshness of truth. She was trapped.

Taking deep inhalations to relax her nerves she frantically hunted for Peter. When she didn't find him anywhere, she felt her eyes sting with tears of rage and resentment. "You can't leave me here!" she screamed, her voice quivering and hoarse. "You cannot leave me here forever!" Her entire body was tremulous with utter terror now. Was she going to stay in Neverland forever? Would she never set her eyes on her family again? Why had she been roughly cursed and punished with such formidable horror?

"Cry all you want, I still won't help you," she heard him say. He'd embraced her so silently that she hadn't even heeded his movements. His breath felt clammy against her neck, and she quickly turned to face him, veiling her sadness beneath stern eyes. She wasn't going to allow him to parade his triumph. He would realize she had given up and use her vulnerability to his utmost advantage.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked him, her voice empty of sentiment. A few loose strands of strawberry blonde hair framed her damp face as beads of perspiration formed on her brow from the undeniably humid atmosphere of her emotions. When Peter reached out his hand to brush it aside, she glanced away from his fixated stare. This time, she did not protest against his impulsive behaviour; but rather looked into the sunlight. If she let her tears escape, she would have an excuse. The sunlight had burned into her eyes, practically blinding her with its acute vividness.

"I see you're crying," Peter said. "It shall only makes things worse than they already are. Your tears do nothing for me. I shall keep you here until you learn to enjoy being here. It's a wonderful place."

"It is nothing more than a horrible prison and I have no desire to stay here. If you keep me here, I will make sure you'll be miserable during my stay."

The self-righteous smile that had formed on Peter lips almost made Wendy want to slap him aggressively across the face. That would teach him some manners, Wendy thought. He seemed to disregard everyone's feelings but his own. Such mammoth selfishness was despicable. Wendy almost pitied him for his inability to feel, to permit himself to possess integrity.

Maybe she had been wrong to think all people held an essence of decency. Peter didn't. Any normal prepubescent boy would have been concerned if they saw a girl cry; but Peter hadn't even sounded tenuously alarmed for her internal aching.

"I don't think that will happen," he said, smugly. "You see, the Lost Boys will do whatever I tell them to. If I ask them to taunt you, they will without objecting. If I tell them to…hurt you, they will." He was trying to threaten her, to scare her out of her wits and let her forfeit and stay without complaint. But it would not work on her. She was too strong and obstinate to collapse in such juvenile play.

"They can insult me all they want. You will only be misusing your time."

"I'd have to strongly disagree."

"I would have to disagree with your disagreeing," Wendy spat defensively. "I should know if I would be offended or not more so any one else. You assume I am weak and defenceless, do you not? Because I am just a girl?"

"Girls are not weak and defenceless; but they are compassionate. They don't hold the capability of fierceness because they have too much emotion."

"That is the most ridiculous concept I have ever heard of in my life," Wendy muttered and was about to turn and walk away when Peter maintained a firm grip on her hand. "What are you doing? Let go of me!" She fought insistently to break away from his grasp.

"I want to show you something."

"I do not want you to show me anything!" Wendy yelled. The sound of her profound anger reverberated in her ears like an echo. "All I want is to go home; but you will not let me go!"

"I am sorry, Wendy; for making you cry," Peter said, sounding legitimately contrite.

Wendy's attempts halted and she inspected his face for any hint of dishonesty.

"But you've upset me," he continued. "First you rudely tell me you don't want to come here, and second, you kill a fairy in spite of what I told you. I do have patience; but your impudence made me angry. I've invited you here, and you should be grateful."

"Be grateful?" Wendy asked. "Be grateful for what? For you hitting me over the head with a lamp and bringing me here when I specifically said I did not want to come?"

Letting out a noisy sigh of noticeable dissatisfaction, Peter ultimately let go of Wendy's hand. "You're right," he said, looking up at her, his heart-rending azure eyes glistening with something Wendy could not quite decipher. "I've been very impolite. I am very and truly sorry. Will you forgive me?"

He sounded so indisputably hopeful for her exoneration, she couldn't allow herself to decline. "I suppose," she said and the corners of his mouth turned upward in a charismatic smile.

"Will you let me show you something?" he asked. "If you do, I promise I will not aggravate you with it again."

Wendy dutifully speculated her decision for a moment. "I…I certainly will let you," she said. He was almost too pleased with her response, as if satisfied that she had finally given up on demurring against his wishes. "Where are you going to show me?"

"I want you to meet the Lost Boys," he replied, holding her hand again. She did not let go.

"Who are the Lost Boys?" Wendy asked, her brilliant sapphire eyes radiating with inquisitiveness. Her slender fingers were beginning to sweat from the tightness of Peter's clench. She did not know; but his body tingled with exhilaration at her touch, sending jolts of electricity through his veins. Such a sensation was almost indescribable, though he wouldn't admit to any such stimulation.

"They're my friends," he answered. "I brought them here, as I have brought you here because they, just like I, did not want to grow up."

"Why would you not want to grow up?"

"Why would you _want_ to?" Peter challenged. "Why would you want to cope with all the responsibility, all the stress and pain that's attached to such a thing?"

"Because that's part of life," Wendy replied. "I do not want to stay alive forever. I will never see my family again."

"But you will never have to fear the thought of dying."

"I am terribly sorry Peter, I think growing up is a wonderful experience," Wendy said, and Peter's face fell in disenchantment.

"What exactly is so wonderful about it? Growing up and becoming a mother? Having responsibilities? Watching your freedom and enjoyment dwindle before your very eyes? Dying?"

Wendy shook her head. Why was he such a pessimist? Growing up was such a glorious occurrence. Isn't it better to dye than knowing that everyone else around you is dying instead? "Peter, growing up does come with disadvantages; but there are so many wonderful things you would not be able to experience as a boy."

"Like what?" Peter asked; but he didn't sound as if he was genuinely engrossed in knowing the answer.

Wendy wasn't going to waste her time influencing him to oppose his own opinions and beliefs. Such an obstinate and supercilious boy would never allow a girl to accuse him of being erroneous. Instead of providing him with a practical response, she swivelled around and trudged away from him. All of their conversations thus far unfolded into excessive unpleasantness, which had only further upshot in turmoil.

"Don't you want to see the Lost Boys?" Peter asked her.

Exhaling noisily, to indicate her frustration, she dolefully glanced over her shoulder at the bothersome boy before her. "I suppose," she said, even as her heart compressed in ache and she really did not want to correlate herself with him or any of his, she assumed, impertinent friends who conceivably shared similar judgments to his own.


End file.
